


Quit your life and come train Pokemon.

by rosmarine



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosmarine/pseuds/rosmarine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step one: Don't fall in love with Aang's ridiculously hot, talented, jerk-ish roommate who sings Fall Out Boy in the shower and is secretly a huge dork.</p><p>Failed step one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quit your life and come train Pokemon.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about Legend of Korra, commuting, or fixing refrigerators.

Sokka just can’t resist. Everywhere he goes, he whistles like he’s Beyoncé and walks like he’s Michael Jackson. He’s been to five ridiculous hipster concerts, mostly hosted in a shady bar across from Sugar and Suki, in the past month. He makes mix tapes for all of Katara’s parties and always convinces poor saps to lip sync battle with him.

So when he hears that one Fall Out Boy song – you know, the one that _everybody_ knows – drifting down the hallway, he really has no choice but to belt out the lyrics from the top of his lungs.

And for a moment, another voice joins him, rougher and loud, and they harmonize perfectly.

Halfway through the next verse, the water stops, the music halts, and Sokka suddenly realizes he’s been dramatically playing the air drums against a bathroom door in his best friend’s apartment, and his best friend can’t possibly showering because he’s mooning over Katara in the kitchen.

The voice behind the door demands, “Who goes there?” It’s husky, terse, and painfully awkward.

“Uhm, we’re total strangers,” says Sokka. “Aang’s my buddy and I’m pretty mortified right now, so I’m just going to sprint into the neighboring city as fast as I can.” Sokka’s legs are ready to turn into wheels, like a cartoon character.

“No, wait!” He hears a breathy sigh.

Gods, who was Aang’s roommate? Sokka racks his brain, trying to remember a name, face, anything.

All he recalls is Aang barging into his tiny cubicle one day and loudly complaining that his mystery roommate picks out all the red hot’s from the gluten-free jellybeans Aang keeps on top of the refrigerator.

“Can you ask Aang to bring me a towel?”

Sokka frowns. “Aang’s your roommate, not your butler!”

“I’m aware! It’s just - I’m in a rush, and I forgot.”

“I’m going to have a talk with Aang about the way you treat him.”

“Just go already!”

Sokka scowls, bowing at the closed door in a mocking salute, which was a gesture lost on the man behind it.

“Fine, your highness.” He adds “ _jerk_ ” under his breath and stomps away.

\---

A breathe hisses through Zuko’s teeth. He shivers, his entire body jolting, and he considers just sprinting towards his bedroom.

No, Aang has company. Zuko’s pretty sure no one wants to see him streak. He must retain some dignity.

Moments later, the voice returns.

“Oh my god,” it squeals, “I think I need to bleach my eyes.”

“What? Why?” Alarm floors Zuko’s body.

“You don’t want to know what Aang’s up to in your kitchen.”

Droplets of water trickle down Zuko’s chin, landing on the clothes balled at his feet. He nudges them out of the way.

“It’s my apartment,” Zuko barks, “just tell me.”

The man’s voice is muffled. “He’s making out with my _sister_! Like, holding hands and rubbing noses! Eww!”

Zuko rolls his eyes. He’s been busy at work; he can’t keep track of his own emotions, let alone his roommate’s.

 _Work_.

A cold hand reaches into his gut, squeezing his intestines. He’s going to be late to his meeting, his father will ignore him and Iroh is going to be _really disappointed_.

“Sir,” says Zuko, anger creeping into his voice. “Can you just grow up and tell my roommate I need his assistance? Who are you, anyways?”

If Zuko was cold before, he’s positively frigid when the door pops open and a scarlet towel is thrust towards him.

His scowl melts. The man is a boy, really, a little older than Aang, with tan skin and dark hair pulled back.

Zuko shivers again, but this time is has nothing to do with the cold.

“The names Sokka,” he says, flashing finger guns _(really??)_ before slamming the door shut.

For a moment, Zuko just stands there, his fingers clenching in terrycloth, his heart pounding. He buries his face in the towel.

_Sokka likes Fall Out Boy._

\---

Moments later, Zuko enters into his room with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Sokka’s stretched across his bed, lying flat on his stomach, his hands propping up his chin.

“I couldn’t help but notice you have the entire Legends of Korra and Asami series on your bookshelf,” he says. Zuko detects the same cool, confident tone from earlier, tinged with just a little bit of dorky excitement.

Zuko turns his back to Sokka, rummaging through his closet for a button down.

“What do you think of Korra’s character arch?” Sokka asks.

“Leave,” Zuko orders.

“Would it make you feel better if I also stripped down to the same level of nudity?” asks Sokka.

Zuko’s eternally grateful his head is dipped inside a drawer, and that Sokka can’t see the red flush spreading across his face. He definitely does not want to imagine his new personal stranger just as naked as he is, stretched across his bed. Zuko glances at the clock. His meeting starts in fifteen minutes – he doesn’t have time to deal with Sokka, even if it means missing the chance to geek out over a novel that stole his heart.

Which he doesn’t do, ever.

“No. You’re a pest,” says Zuko. There’s no malice behind his words.

He gets dressed.

\---

Holy shit on a stick. No wonder Aang never allowed Sokka and Zuko to meet – his roommate is ridiculously hot.

Hot enough that Sokka feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust just thinking about his shaggy hair, checked button down, calloused hands, mysterious star –

After his first encounter with Aang’s nuclear hot roommate (Zuko, Aang later supplied, when Zuko was out and Sokka was salivating in his bedroom, like a _stalker_ ), Sokka plans.

The entirety of his plans involve making up increasingly ridiculous excuses to visit Aang in his tiny apartment.

For important reasons. Like movie night.

Aang and Katara get too cuddly on the couch. Sokka sneaks off, barging into Zuko’s room without knocking and flopping down on his golden comforter.

“I didn’t know you play the piano,” Sokka says, his voice muffled by the softest and most expensive pillow he’s ever laid his head upon. But really, he doesn’t know anything about Zuko, aside from the fact that he has really good taste in books, the voice of an angel, and abs that Sokka really shouldn’t be thinking about when he’s sprawled across the guys bed.

It makes sense that this guy is both ridiculously gorgeous and super talented. Not to mention filthy rich, if the way he dresses for work is any indicator. Sokka had picked out Zuko’s tie for him the day they met, or the day Sokka rethought his life choices, and Sokka had never seen such a fine collection of silk.

“I only play when I’m stressed,” says Zuko.

“So all the time?”

The music stops.

 _Shit_.

Sokka sits up.

“What’s up, bro?” he ask Zuko’s hunched profile..

“It’s nothing important.”

“Zuko, if it warrants angsty piano music, it’s gotta be important.”

For a long moment Zuko is silent.

“It’s just – my dad’s putting a lot of pressure on me at work.”

For a moment, Sokka’s stunned that he actually got anything out of this terse stranger. Sokka’s accustomed to being brushed off, and warm pride spreads through his chest.

“What does your dad have to do with work?” he asks.

“He’s my boss.”

“That’s messed up, man. Aren’t there rules against that?”

Zuko crosses his arms, slumping forwards against the keyboard. The room is small and well kept, but Sokka can pick out the tiny details of Zuko’s life.

“He’s the CEO of a large weapon manufacturing company, so there’s a lot at stake,” Zuko explains.

“You’re a hot-shot,” Sokka teases. “Is that why you bring a suitcase to work?”

“It’s a messenger bag,” Zuko says, indignant.

“Equally lame.” Sokka dodges a book of sheet music. He can almost make out the knobs in Zuko’s spine, like pearls underneath his soft t-shirt.

“All I’m saying,” Sokka continues, “is that if things don’t work out, you could always burn the place to the ground.”

Zuko’s shoulders shake, and Sokka silently congratulates himself for evoking a laugh.

“That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard,” says Zuko. His voice cracks like a betrayal. Sokka hasn’t evoked a laugh – he’s made a mistake, made the situation worse.

His heart pounds at a million miles an hour. _What would Katara do? Besides suck Aang’s face off._

Sokka moves, straddling the piano bench, and he wraps his arms around Zuko.

“Just put her there, buddy,” he says. Depressing violin music swells around them as the movie down the hall draws to a close.

Zuko’s arms sneak underneath his own, wrapping around Sokka’s waist.

“If you tell anyone about this,” Zuko sniffles, “I’ll burn you to the ground.”

For a moment, the entire world tilts because this guy, this _terse pianist_ that is talented and gifted and has his entire life together, so far out of Sokka’s league that he needs a _telescope_ , is a snot-nosed mess and ruining Sokka’s t-shirt. His _ironic_ t-shirt.

Aang totally ruins the moment, slamming open the door.

“Hey, the movie’s over. Katara and I are making smores!”

Zuko ducks his head and tightens his grip, crunching a few of Sokka’s bones.

“Aang!” Sokka yelps, completely manly,

Aang cocks his head. Sokka knows that head tilt – it’s Aang’s innocent, maybe-I-should-just-leave head tilt.

“We’ll save a few for you,” Aang says, and he just leaves.

Zuko and Sokka freeze, wrapped around each other like vines. There’s dried salt tracks trailing down Zuko’s cheek. Sokka runs a hand through Zuko’s incredibly soft hair, smoothing down the unruly strands.

“We should probably tell Aang we’re not – “ he says.

“I will burn you to the ground, Sokka.”

\---

Aang visits Sokka at work.

“Aren’t you supposed to be designing a vacuum cleaner, not a fighting spider-bot?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing yoga somewhere?” he shoots back.

Aang glances at his watch.

“Not for a few hours.”

Aang perches himself on the edge of Sokka’s desk. The cubicle is small, and Sokka can hear the tail end of his neighbor’s phone conversation about cat vomit. But he likes the job, likes the company, and sure as _hell_ likes having the money to buy beer and bagel bites.

In the week since the infamous _naked roommate_ incident, as Sokka and Aang have dubbed it, his excuses to visit Aang in his apartment have grown increasingly ridiculous.

“I made too many pork chops to eat by myself,” he claims.

“I’m a vegetarian,” says Aang.

“We totally need to have a bro night,” says Sokka.

“Don’t you usually just get drunk with Toph and Suki?”

“My hamster died,” says Sokka,” and I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Sokka,” says Aang, “you really don’t need an excuse to visit your boyfriend.”

He picks a balled-up piece of paper off of Sokka’s desk and smoothes out the creases.

“He’s not my-“ Sokka bites back the rest of the words, remembering Zuko’s hissing into his ear. Which, wow, could someone open a _window_? He really shouldn’t be imagining Zuko’s breathy voice and intense gaze in the middle of a work day, in his tiny cubicle, with Aang folding an origami lotus at his elbow.

“Katara and I love you,” Aang says, but it hurts Sokka, because it’s a casual reminder that Aang has got it all mixed up. Zuko’s too refined and successful to date a guy who spends all his time soldering together fighting robots and singing terrible karaoke. Sokka and Zuko are two extremes, two opposites, like oil and vinegar, and if Sokka has learned anything from binge watching the Food Network Challenge, it’s that oil and vinegar _don’t mix_.

Sokka brushes it off. “Hey,” he says, “do you think this spider vacuum will be marketable towards children?”

Aang leaves. Sokka finds a tiny paper lotus on his desk.

\---

One night, Zuko’s fingers hover over the keyboard. He feels like a hand’s wrapped itself around his lungs. His father had called him into his office that morning and berated him. The memory of sharp teeth and sharper hand movements burn into Zuko’s memory, and he just wants to forget the fury in his father’s eyes.

Zuko’s geometric lamp casts breathtaking shadows across his walls. Sokka’s voice floats in from the kitchen.

“I know!” he yells. “Who would get rid of it? It’s only missing, like, two of the dice!”

Zuko flips a page in his sheet music. His door bursts open.

“Zuko!” says Sokka. Zuko blinks. Sokka sounds…excited? To see him?

“Zuko, I got a new board game. Come on, jerk, we need four players. You’re _numero quatorce._ ”

“That means fourteen, stupid,” says Zuko. “Why are you always here?”

Sokka sends him a weird look, like Zuko’s the one who’s just made a basic language mistake.

“Because,” says Sokka, “you’re ridiculously fine and talented and listen to really good music. Isn’t it obvious?”

There’s a loud yelp of pain from down the hall, and Zuko hears Katara shout, “the timer went _where_?”

Sokka takes off, bounding down the hall.

Zuko’s face is on the merge of melting off, and a small, childish part of him wants to stay in his room until apes take over the world so he never has to see _Sokka’s_ ridiculously radiant smile.

There are eruptions of laughter coming from downstairs, and Zuko just thinks _fuck it, it beats wallowing in self-pity._

He unplugs his keyboard and follows.

\---

Sokka realizes how far gone he is when he has an inappropriate reaction to Fall Out Boy playing in his local grocery store.

He crushes a few tomatoes and locks himself into a bathroom stall, angrily humming Beyoncé to drown out Patrick Stump, forcing himself to think of anything _besides Zuko dripping wet._

\---

Zuko’s staring at his laptop, re-reading an accident report that makes his head pound, when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” he says.

Katara peeks her head in. “Sokka texted me – he left his hoodie here.”

Zuko points towards his desk, where he folded Sokka’s blue sweatshirt. Well, he’d only allowed himself to press his face into it a _little_ , before he’d washed it, then ironed it, then folded it.

Katara steps into the room and grabs it.

“Thanks,” she says. “Hey, is this from Sokka?”

Zuko glances up. Katara stares at him, a hand on her hip like he’s one of her kindergarten students who ate an entire stick of glue, like he’s done something wrong. She points a single finger at the disk lying on his desk.

“Yes,” says Zuko. It’s a shiny CD with the words _To my favorite angsty jerk :P_ scrawled across it in sharpie. Zuko listens to it when he’s working, on the train, or can’t sleep.

Katara blinks. She shoves a finger in Zuko’s face.

“If you break my brother’s heart,” she says, “I will remove _all of the blood from your body._ ”

Katara storms off, and Zuko remembers Sokka’s angry suggestion of “burning it to the ground.”

He shrugs. Crazy must run in the family.

\---

They text sporadically. Sokka’s on the train ride home one afternoon. Aang and Katara are out for dinner. He has the newest Pokemon game and he really wants to show it off to _someone_ , and, well, he’d been texting Zuko about hot strangers on the train.

The conversation evolved from, “ _Don’t worry, buddy, they don’t hold a candle to your burning flame ;)”_ to _“POKEMON! Want to see?”_ to _“I’ll get off at your stop.”_

Zuko answers the door in an untucked shirt and slacks.

Sokka pulls him into a one-armed bro hug, running his fingertips across Zuko’s thumb.

It’s the first time he’s visited Zuko without Aang and Katara, so there’s no buffer. Sokka feels a little naked. He overcompensates for his discomfort by taking the opportunity to curl up beside Zuko on the couch, cushioning his head on Zuko’s lap.

“You’ve been playing,” he says as Zuko looks over some confidential reports from work that could probably get Sokka murdered.

“It’s just…leisure,” Zuko says, so awkwardly that Sokka cringes.

“Mh-hm,” he says, blasting away a fucking Magikarp. “Quit your life and come train Pokemon with me.”

There’s the sound of paper crackling.

Sokka pauses the game, mid-battle, and looks up.

Zuko’s gaze holds a fierce concentration. Sokka’s breathing stutters – this close, it’s oddly intimate, like they’re sharing the same breath.

“Why do you say things like that?” Zuko asks, his voice terse. “Telling me to quit my job, burn my life, defy my father?”

 _I never said anything about daddy dearest_ , Sokka notes. He gingerly closes his game, but he doesn’t move to sit up.

“No offense dude, but you’re pretty much stressed as often as you breathe.” Thoughtlessly, he reaches up, tracing a finger over the callouses on Zuko’s hands and motioning to the mountain of paperwork stretched out on the coffee table.

“I’m happy,” says Zuko.

“Is this happiness?”

Something in Zuko’s face softens, the furrow of his brow becoming tender.

Sokka shrugs, retuning to his game. He raises the volume.

Zuko mutters, “damn Magikarp.”

\---

Sokka invades Zuko’s thoughts.

Sometimes, on train rides, Zuko tunes out the wails of children and murmurs of the conductor, letting his head bob along to the playlist Sokka had made him.

After he cycled through the loop for the third time in a row, Zuko suspects that the mix was a ploy, a device to get him to think of Sokka even when he’s not there.

It’s working.

\---

A week later, Katara and Aang leave to go save orphans in Guatemala. Sokka hugs his little sister goodbye, and when she whispers, “try not to spend all your time with prettyboy,” he squeezes her until she sputters.

But – his texting history reveals he’s grown worryingly attached to someone he’s known for a month.

With Aang and Katara a bajillion miles away, Sokka calls upon his army of other friends to fill the void. He shops with Suki, plays Mario Kart with Haru, and makes fun of strangers in a park with Toph.

Slowly, like the thawing of ice, Sokka feels his life rebuilding so it’s no longer centered around an angsty pianist.

His doorbell rings at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night.

Sokka answers holding a baseball bat.

Zuko stands before him, in a suit and messenger bag, his ridiculously nice tie loosened. Sokka doesn’t drop the bat.

“How do you know where I live?” asks Sokka.

Zuko ignores the question. “I got fired today.”

“You got fired,” Sokka repeats, “by your _dad_?”

Zuko nods, and Sokka ushers him inside.

In the harsh light of the kitchen, Sokka feels like he’s seeing a new Zuko. His hair’s a little longer, and he has a dark smudge under his good eye.

Sokka brews a cup of hot chocolate for himself and jasmine tea for Zuko.

Zuko’s head drops, and his shoulders form the hard line of the Andes Mountains. Sokka grabs Zuko’s hand and wraps it around the mug.

“Looks like you won’t be getting him a _World’s Best Dad_ mug this year, huh?”

Zuko blinks. “No. Don’t most dads just smash them?”

Sokka turns his chair around, straddling it.

“Look, if you need a job, you could totally come work at Avatech. I can definitely blackmail Toph into hiring you! Even if it’s only for Starbucks runs.”

Zuko’s face pales.

“Alright,” says Zuko, and at the moment he sounds like the saddest, smallest kitten in the world.

Sokka’s fingers twitch with the urge to burn Zuko’s dad to the ground.

He wraps Zuko in a bear hug, the ones he used to give Katara when she skinned her knee.

“Sokka,” says Zuko, and Sokka _wants_ to hear a sultry voice, but it just sounds concerned. _Concerned?_ The angle’s awkward, and Sokka’s chair tilts too far forwards. He bangs his chin on Zuko’s thigh. Sharp pain ricochets through his jaw and they both cry out.

Sokka sits up. Tea drips down his face. He snorts – a puddle formed on Zuko’s lap.

Zuko howls with laughter.

Sokka shakes his head like a wet puppy, sending droplets of tea everywhere. Zuko leans back in protest.

“It’s a good thing you don’t drink something disgusting,” says Sokka, “like _Starbucks_.”

He convinces Zuko to crash at his place for the night by tackling him every time he edges towards the door. He lends Zuko a pair of whale-print pajamas.

Sokka passes by the bathroom door and catches sight of Zuko brushing his teeth. Zuko looks tired, and there’s a little bit of toothpaste foam on the corner of his mouth. Sokka slips away. It’s so painfully domestic that Sokka’s throbbing heart keeps him awake. Halfway through the night, he gives up on getting any sleep on the living room couch and plugs in his earphones. He digs through his dirty hamper so he doesn’t have to venture into his bedroom and find out whether or not Zuko snores.

Sokka leaves at the crack of dawn.

He scribbles a note for Zuko on the back of an envelope, dropping it on the kitchen table.

_You know what’s awesome? CUPCAKES. You should totally visit Sugar and Suki and tell her you’re not a jerk. I mean, if you’re feeling it. Have a good day!! :D_

Sokka stops by Sugar and Suki, paying for Zuko’s cupcake.

Suki pinches his cheek. “It’s got to be someone special, if you’re buying ‘em cupcakes from _me._ ”

Sokka scowls, the change rattling as he drops it in his pocket.

He hasn’t fallen in love with a gorgeous, terse pianist – he went and fell for a gorgeous, angsty pianist _with daddy issues_.

\---

For some reason, Zuko’s not even a little surprised when his refrigerator breaks down and he opens the door to find Sokka, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Aang sent me an email telling me to fix your refrigerator.”

“Aang’s in _Guatemala._ ” Zuko’s brain wanders back to the painfully awkward Skype session, where he had to tell Aang that he no longer had a job to keep him from moping around the house all day and he was a little afraid to text Sokka. He’d shown Sokka his wounds that were so very open and vulnerable. It’s hard for Zuko to be around someone who knows which buttons would make him laugh or cry or fall apart. His face burns with embarrassment.

“You’re a refrigerator repairman?” asks Zuko.

“Not really. It’s more of a hobby.”

Zuko slams the door in his face.

“Just show me the manual. Trust me!” Sokka’s words are stiffled . Is this the life they share? Are they just destined to bang on shut doors, communicating in muffled tones?

The doorknob’s cool in Zuko’s clammy hands.

Ten minutes later, sweat pools on the tile floor as Sokka and Zuko push the refrigerator back into its rightful place. The reassuring hum of the motor cheers them on.

They both collapse on the floor. Zuko notes the sliver of tan skin peeking above Sokka’s waistband – _oh god, how do you breathe again?_

Sokka wipes a hand across his forehead. He takes out his hairband, shaking his curls loose.

Normally, Zuko’s turned on by proper hygiene, but the way Sokka’s lips part in heavy breathing and his hair _glistens_ makes Zuko’s mouth go dry.

“So,” Sokka says, “got anything else you want me to fix?”

Zuko drops his head into his hands.

“This is the start of every gay erotica _ever_ ,” he mumbles.

“You take that back, says Sokka. “There are some well-crafted, enthralling pornos out there. Like Star Wars.”

Sokka’ voice takes on a note of offense, and Zuko would be a little perplexed if his mind wasn’t somersaulting because they both just _casually_ admitted to watching gay porn.

Zuko buries his chin, his cheeks aflame. Sokka pokes his shoulder.

“Hey Zuko, is your refrigerator running?”

“Considering that you just took it apart and reassembled it, I hope so.”

“Then you better go catch it!” Sokka bursts out laughing, rocking forwards. For a moment, Zuko’s too stunned to move. He surges forwards, grabbing the front of Sokka’s shirt, and he kisses him.

Sokka stops rocking. Zuko runs his hands along Sokka’s rough skin. He tastes like Columbian coffee and mint chewing gum.

It’s a chaste, close-mouthed kiss, their noses crunching together, and Zuko pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What? Why? Do you want romantic music? I have Fall Out Boy. Actually, uh, we might want to save that for another time.”

Zuko rises, pacing across the kitchen.

“Sokka, you just don’t know me.” The words taste like plaster.

“ _Know_ you? Zuko, I’ve seen you naked. You cried into my shirt. We moved a refrigerator together. We’re kind of homies for life.”

Sokka had a point. Somehow, without Zuko even realizing it, Sokka had slithered past all of Zuko’s military-grade defenses he’d set up around his personal space, wrapping himself inextricably around Zuko’s heart.

What a jerk.

“You don’t want any part of this,” Zuko tries, a hand tilting towards, well, all of himself.

Sokka’s eyes rake over his body, and Zuko feels more exposed than the time he was actually _naked_.

“Yeah, I do,” says Sokka, and he steps forwards, kicking a stray jellybean across the floor and wrapping his arms around Zuko. “You’re the one that’s way out of my league.”

“What are leagues?” Zuko mumbles against Sokka’s lips. It doesn’t feel like kissing a stranger – it feels like Zuko’s kissing his long-lost soul mate.

After a short eternity, they separate. Sokka runs a hand across Zuko’s cheek, drawing smooth circles.

“Thank you for the cupcake,” Zuko says, “But I’m confused. Why were there flames on it?”

Sokka bites his lip, holding back a dopey grin. “Because you’re scalding hot!”

He raises his hand for a high five. Zuko glares at him until he lowers it.

“Can we still make out?” Sokka asks. Zuko answers by tangling his fingers into Sokka’s hair and pulling him into a heated kiss.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Kudos are hugs, comments are smooches <3


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